A Last Friendship
by kalinda001
Summary: Set PGP. Avon realizes some things about himself as he sits in a prison cell waiting for the end. In steps Servalan...Avon has one more thing to learn. Chars-Avon, Servalan and sort of Vila


The sound of screaming woke him up; Avon opened his eyes. He didn't bother to look around him, it was all too familiar: the depressing gray walls, the hard metallic surface of the sleep platform, the menacing lights which were always too bright and the coldness which penetrated into his bones and made him shiver. And the pain. The ever-present, familiar, almost comforting pain; the only indication that he was still alive.

He didn't know how long he had been there. Had it been weeks, months, years? He had lost track a long time ago. Losing the sense of time increased the helplessness, they made sure of that. No visible time instruments; no frame of reference. The unrelentingly bright lights were always on in the prisoner areas. What little food they gave him was at unpredictable times.

Sometimes he didn't even know whether he was awake or whether he was living another one of his nightmares; his own or those induced by the interrogators.

Avon never felt as alone as he did in this cell. He always thought that he wanted to be alone, to be away from people. But being here had taught him something; Sevalan had taught him something. The forced isolation she had subjected him to had made him understand the difference between the solitude he needed and truly being alone; without friends, without people who cared whether he lived or died. He would have dismissed it before, saying that he didn't need people; he never needed anyone. But it would have been a lie; even from the beginning, he had always needed at least one person, whether it was his brother, or Anna. One person to care; one person he could care about.

Solitude. Avon didn't understand this need himself. He had it from an early age, this necessity to be alone to think; to be at peace without the constant pressure other people's presence put on him. Interacting with most people confused him. They were not orderly or logical. What he saw of them often made him want to retreat more. Their inconsistencies bothered his rational mind. It was not to say that he did not crave social interaction; but only in controlled, measured doses.

The door to the cell slid open. Avon struggled up to a sitting position; his shackled hands hampering more than helping. He would face his tormenters with the only thing they had left him, the arrogant defiance they had never been able to wipe from his face. _Who will it be this time? _He didn't know why he bothered to wonder anymore. It was always the same. The only time he was safe was when the door stayed closed.

He reflected on how ironic it was that his safety was determined by the state of a door. Once he had thought that being wealthy enough would keep him safe from the people who wanted to use him. It seemed like a long time ago. He no longer had that possibility now; a dead man has no future. Avon felt death creeping up on him, consuming more of him each day; the breaking down of his battered body, the slipping of his embattled mind and the spirit slowly bleeding to nothing.

A woman walked through the entrance. _Servalan. _The architect of his demise.

Avon leaned back tiredly against the cell wall. He gazed at her impassively as she approached. She stood 

looking down at him; the poised and beautiful snake and her bound and helpless victim. This woman had the power of life and death over him; the power of pain and control. And he hated her.

"You look terrible, Avon," she said pleasantly.

He didn't respond and only continued staring at her.

She smiled and asked, "Is it going to be one of _those_ conversations?"

"I don't know, is it?" he responded in a weary and disinterested tone. His eyes carried a dead emptiness; when he stared, it was no longer with disturbing intensity but a mesmerizing spiral into nothingness. What semblance of a life he had before, no longer existed; replaced by a futilely defiant wait for the end.

"That's better," she said in a pleased manner, as if bestowing praise on a difficult child.

"The answer is no, Servalan." His manner was hard and gave nothing away.

"I haven't asked you anything yet." She was still speaking with an air of civility.

"The answer is still, no. It will always be no. Now either get to the torture or leave me alone." There was no energy in Avon's tone. Just a statement of fact.

"They tell me that you still refuse to tell us what we want to know," she said to him.

Avon was wracked by a painful cough. The pain in his ribs made it difficult to breathe. When it passed, he leaned back against the wall again.

He told her, "You should save yourself the aggravation and just kill me. I will never cooperate with you."

Servalan smiled again. She said, "Speaking of collaborations, do you remember, I said once that I considered you a future friend?"

Avon's lips curled in a half-snarl, half-sarcastic smile. "You should have yourself checked for delusional tendencies, Servalan. That will never happen."

"Oh, Avon. Something is only a delusion, if it doesn't happen. I have the power to _make_ things happen. You should know that by now."

"Save your breath. Your _power_ to _gloat_ doesn't impress me."

"There is one thing about you which _impress_es _me_," said Servalan.

"And what's that?"

"Your ability to drive away everyone who cared about you," she said in a voice that was smooth and crafty. "Or should I say, kill?" The civility was no longer civil.

Avon had a strong flash of guilt and anger, and then he controlled his reactions. Servalan was trying to bait him again. She knew that this was an area that made him vulnerable, that put him on the defensive. He was not going to give her that advantage. Avon glared at her and said, "Enough, Servalan. I'm tired of playing your games. I would rather be tortured, than to continue this conversation."

Servalan ignored him and said, "You still do have one friend, Avon. But it won't be much longer."

"What are you talking about?" he asked her with cold suspicion in his eyes.

"You will know soon enough. When he's ready. We're preparing him for you."

"Who are you preparing?" he asked her.

"Vila."

"Vila?" Avon asked, reacting in surprise before he could stop himself. "I thought you said he was dead?" The dark emptiness had a spark of life still.

"You should know better than to believe me, Avon. It was convenient for me to have you believe that he died. Now it is convenient for me to have you know the truth."

Avon didn't understand why, but news that Vila was still alive took some of the bleakness away. His mind race as he thought of the implications of what Servalan was saying. _Maybe the others are still alive too._

"The others _are_ dead," said Servalan. "In case you were wondering."

"I don't believe you." Avon felt very tired. The concentration required to battle this dangerous woman always drained what little energy he had.

"I don't blame you. I have all the power. You have none. I could say anything and you would never know if I was telling the truth. But for what it's worth, I _am_ telling you the truth this time. The others all died on Gauda Prime; everyone except you and Vila. I have a very special use planned for Vila. That is the only reason why he has been kept alive. In a way, he has you to thank for that."

"Does this indecent bout of truth extend to telling me what that reason is?"

"Vila is of great value to me because he is the only friend you have left. I am going to take that friendship away from you."

"What are you saying?" Avon's voice raised in anger. The unaccustomed emotion surprised him; for months he had felt nothing but hatred, pain and loneliness. This was anger still, but an anger that had it's source in an unreasonable hope; that he was not alone. Not since the day he found Anna did someone else's existence mean so much to him; not since the day he stood in shock over the body of a friend he had just killed in error.

"You know what I'm saying. I am going to leave you with nothing, Avon. I will make Vila hate you. The sight of you will make him want to kill you. And then I will allow him to escape so that he will turn everyone against you. Those who aren't against you already, that is. They all know you killed Blake, you see."

"You made sure they knew."

"Of course."

"You will never condition Vila to do that. He is resistant to conditioning."

Servalan said with a derisive sneer on her lips, "You mean those pathetic attempts at conditioning they use for the deltas?"

"Yes. They were never able to stop him from stealing."

Servalan laughed. "Does it make any sense to you that someone with a will as weak as Vila's, would be able to resist _any_ kind of conditioning?"

"Then why were they never successful at stopping him from stealing?"

"You're assuming that the conditioning was to stop him from stealing."

"If not that, then what else?" asked Avon.

"What is required from all deltas in the Federation? Mindless obedience to and fear of authority figures, of course. To let people better than they are, do their thinking for them. Unfortunately, Vila escaped before his conditioning program was completed. They tend to do them in bulk groupings for the deltas in the rehabilitation facilities. It was easy for them to lose track of someone as slippery as Vila is. And who has a penchant for getting out of tight places."

Avon felt a pang of guilt and a growing anger. _Conditioned. _He had often accused Vila of being easily led. Now it seemed that part of the way he viewed Vila had been based on a lie. He wanted to laugh at the irony of another relationship built on falsehoods, but the only thing he felt was a deep sense of failure and regret. There was a look of pain in his eyes.

"Why did Vila think he was being conditioned against stealing?" he asked, still not quite believing her.

"I'm surprised at you, Avon. The answer should be obvious. That was part of the conditioning. Vila _assumed_ afterwards that he was being conditioned against stealing. That would be a logical assumption for someone who has no sense of _scope_. A typical limitation of the delta mind."

"He is _not_ a delta," said Avon angrily. For some reason, he felt the need to defend Vila against Servalan.

"I know. I did say that Vila told the interrogators everything. Including the part where he bought a delta rating to avoid military service. They were able to verify that, by the way."

"So he _was_ an alpha?"

"Oh, Avon. Did you _want_ to believe that? Of course, he wasn't. What a notion. What grades are required to do compulsory military service? It's not the alphas. Not us. We're too valuable."

Avon nodded in understanding. "The beta and gamma grades."

"Vila was born a beta. But he had the _limitation_ of a labour grade education."

Avon didn't care what Servalan was saying anymore. All he could think of was that Vila was still alive, and it made him feel less alone.

"You're going to let him go?" he asked her. Avon knew that he no longer had a chance; Servalan was never going to let him go. The only thing he could hope for was a quick death when she was finally finished with him. But somehow, knowing that Vila would have a chance, made things easier to bear now. He was glad that at least one person would be able to escape this nightmare. _Even if you are going to be used against me. At least you'll be free. Do a good job, Vila. Don't be lazy. Or they'll take you back. _

"Not yet. He has another purpose to fulfill for me first," said Servalan. The smile she gave him sent chills down Avon's spine.


End file.
